


a whole new language

by Kierkegarden



Series: undo me in your image (make me a middle ground) [4]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Crack, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Pseudo-Incest, Ru-Paul, Smut, We've got it all -- just no cohesive timeline, gay slang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 07:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18231515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kierkegarden/pseuds/Kierkegarden
Summary: The English language, to Klaus, is for finger-painting with. Luther can only stare at his hands.(or 5 times Klaus confounds Luther with gay lingo + 1 time Luther wisens up to it.)





	a whole new language

**Author's Note:**

> I APOLOGIZE.

1. 

  
It was only supposed to have been a one time thing. _Well,_ Klaus thinks, _it actually should have never happened._ He thinks back to his first trip, to all of the loonybin bullshit that Five has been spouting about the past and future and all the different timelines, and wonders if there is any singular instance besides this where he and Luther spend the last days of their mortality fucking each other’s brains out.

Until two days ago, Klaus would have put money on Luther being as straight as an uncooked spaghetti noodle. As it turns out, the apocalypse has the same effect on him as a vat of boiling water.

“Mm, baby,” Klaus props himself up in his bed as it groans under Luther’s weight, eyes lidded, “You’re a full-ass meal right now and mama’s _so_ hungry.”

“What?” Luther sits bolt upright, causing Klaus to double over in laughter.

“You know, a meal! Like a snack but bigger -- _mm_ \-- and better.”

“You’re going to eat me?” Luther blushes deeply, “ _Oh._ Like that.”

“If you --” Klaus holds back a snort -- “If you want, I guess. It’s just a thing people say.”

“Oh,” Luther’s neck deepens another shade. Almost purple. “Sorry.”  
  
Sighing, Klaus shakes the blankets, getting up to take a smoke. His naked body is pale in the moonlight, arching out the open window. He looks over his shoulder with a wink. “Don’t stare too hard.”

  
  
2. 

 

Luther has one thick finger two knuckles deep inside of him and Klaus is barely capable of sentient thought. His hands are so rough, calloused and huge, one bearing down around Klaus’s waist and the other relentlessly playing with that bundle of nerves that most men can’t reach with their cocks, let alone with their fingers.

“Talk to me,” Luther heaves in his ear, “I love it when you _talk.”_

Klaus takes a stilted breath, followed by a whine when he opens his mouth.

“Fuck, you make me sick, baby,” he babbles, through his teeth, “digging into my cake with your hands like it’s a fucking birthday party --”

“I make you sick?”

Luther suddenly stops thrusting, causing Klaus to mewl.

“ _Yes,”_ he whines, “because it’s so filthy, I don’t know, okay? It’s a good thing, Luther.”

“Your cake?” Luther examines his own lube-covered hand as if it is a foreign object, “Is that the same thing as a meal?”

Klaus snorts. “I--”

He kisses the dumbfounded expression away.

  
3.

 

The tea kettle whistles loudly on the stove as Klaus sways back and forth in his bathrobe, rubbing his eyes.

“It’s a horrible life --” he sings, although there is no apparent tune to it, “living without druuuuugs!”

“I --” Luther looks down at his lap from the table, “Can you just give me the tea, Klaus?”

“Oh,” Klaus waltzes over to where he’s sitting next to Allison and Diego, “I’ll give you the tea. The tea is that sobriety sucks, and these fucking migraines suck, and I can’t get a decent night’s sleep without the ghost of some 18th century Austrian whore belting opera in my ear.”

“I…” says Luther, “but…”

He gestures to the kettle, still rattling on the stove and looks to Allison cluelessly. She shrugs in response.

“Oh, sorry, baby,” says Klaus, retrieving it for him.

“It’s like another language,” Luther says, looking straight ahead.

 

4.

 

“And then,” Klaus says, “they come into my cell, snatch my fucking wig, and tell the whole damn prison that I’m the one who shot the guy and I can’t even deny it because he wont stop _talking_ to me _complaining to me that he’s dead._ Do you have any --” he sniffs dramatically, wiping a fake tear away, “ _any_ idea what it’s like to have to pretend to be the guy who shot a chart topper’s body guard?”

“Which chart topper?” says Allison.

“Was any of that even true?” says Diego.

“Wait --” says Luther, wringing his hands, “ _snatch your --_ you brought a wig to prison?”

Allison leans over Diego’s shoulder, cupping her hand into Luther’s ear.

“Don’t try and understand it,” she whispers, “Just play along.”

 

5.

 

“I’ve got an idea,” Luther’s voice is low as gravely in Klaus’s ear, “What if I was to try on one of your thongs.”

“Mm,” Klaus’s eyes go hazy, “With your ass? It would be gone before you even _tried_ to stretch it over your dick.”

Luther growls, pulling the black lacy thing from the floor, half way up his bare thighs as Klaus watches hungrily.

“We’ll see about that.”

“Mm,” Klaus licks his lips, “Luther, baby, you can get it.”

Luther stops short. “Get what? Like...keep the -- keep the underwear?”

Klaus rubs his temples.

 

6.

 

Luther is already out of bed when Klaus gets up. He checks his phone, pulls on his bathrobe, and staggers to the kitchen where the harsh light of day abrases his corneas.

The house is like a ticking time bomb and the silence is deafening. Klaus reaches into his pocket, pawing at the butt of a half-smoked cigarette. God, he could go for a smoke. Off of a crack pipe.

He can hear the faint chatter of canned voices coming from the living room, and he lets his feet carry him, like a spectre, towards the source of the noise. When he gets there, he blinks in the strange sight.

Luther is curled up on the couch in a pair of navy blue pajamas, eyes fixed on his phone, the sound of catty remarks and bubblegum pop could only mean one thing. Klaus does a double take.

“Are you watching...Ru-Paul’s Drag Race?”

“I finally get it,” Luther muses up at him, “Sick means hot! Bad means good!”

“Baby, it’s not --” There is so much to unpack here, Klaus thinks, so much that could be said for summing an entire subculture down to a mass-marketed televised drag competition, but right now he doesn’t want to think about that. He wants to hold Luther and tell him that, amazingly, he’s done a good thing and he’s one step closer to reversing that ugly, ugly internalized hatred.

“Y- Yaas?” says Luther a bit unsteadily as Klaus sits down beside him, “Werk that cake, hunty! Mm, you move those hips, queen.”

“Oh God,” Klaus rubs his eyes downwards, wishing he could rub his entire face off, “Please, baby, please don’t say that.”

“Does that mean --” Luther puts an arms around him, “ _Do_ say that, or…”

“No, no, no, nope, _please_ do not,” says Klaus and sighs half pityingly and half contentedly, curling up to him.


End file.
